scalene triangles
by hiddenmermaid
Summary: There's Riley, the pinnacle, and Lucas, and Maya; the thing about scalene (love) triangles is that none of the sides are equal and yet, they always add up.


I.

She turns gold in the mornings, you've told her this yourself and she smiled and brushed it off and a part of you will always be mortified you said so out loud. What is it they say about gold? It glitters or it doesn't, something like that; it stays but it tarnishes, it's the best but prices are falling.

Well, words were never your forte; the sketchbook you hug to your chest can attest to that. Every other page is of her, the only face your fingers know on their own; muscle memory, maybe, or something more. She always asks to look inside and you always tell her no.

II.

You love her and she loves the idea of him and he, well, he's a mess and so _confused_ (and she likes that because she thinks her only talent is at fixing things). He likes her eyes but he likes your smile and on good days, it makes you laugh that he thinks he can have his pick.

You don't like to dwell on the bad days because they are far and few between now, and she is always by your side, her shoulder the perfect place for you to lay your head. People used to tell you that friendship was hard, friendship was compromise, but it's never been like that with her; it's the pining that gets you, the _I want this and so much more_.

There are so many ways to be selfish and you know you are a lot of them, but not this particular kind, not with this girl. For her, you want the world, whoever that might include, and you have a strong feeling that he is a main part of it.

III.

She hums when she does her math homework and you complain that it's distracting but you never go into specifics. At night, you share her bed and you are so careful to never cross the line (the one she doesn't know exists), but her feet tangle up in yours and she hugs you like she'll never let go and you remind yourself that you two are Best Friends.

IV.

He's about to graduate from NYU and he's not sure, he says, whether or not he wants to stay in New York after he does. She's looking at you because, after all this time, she still thinks you might harbor some feelings for him. You have to ask yourself if that is heteronormativity or cluelessness (her speciality) or her stubborn belief that first loves actually mean something to the world.

If you can even call that love, whatever you saw in him when he was skinnier and awkward and unsure of who he was. You remember your reaction to "you grew up gorgeous," and you remember insisting it was more than a crush because you _knew_ him, you _understood_ him, and now you wonder how much of that was all in your head.

How much of that was you whispering _be straight be straight be straight_ because that was what you were supposed to be? How much of that was you trying to be a part of the sunshiney, perfectly packaged family you'd idolized for so long? How much of that was your attempt to be as close to being hers as possible because you knew you'd never marry her?

She's holding your hand now, a show of solidarity because you used to go as far as collapsing on the floor whenever he so much as looked your way, and right now you almost wish that he _would_ disappear so you could have this moment, untainted.

V.

It's New York City and gay marriage is legal everywhere now and you know the kind of people you surround yourself with will accept you without hesitation, but you are still too scared to come out.

The subtle changes are what worry you, the way she might think twice before holding your hand or sharing a bed when you sleep over. She might never cry into your shirt – oh God, what if she replaces your shirt with _his_ – again, might not throw the words 'I love you' around quite so freely anymore.

You don't think you can bear a lifetime of never hearing the nickname 'peaches' again. Some things are worth keeping your mouth shut for, especially when you don't know what you are yet. Or _who_ you are.

VI.

He's watching you paint (a purple tiger, crouching, about to strike), and that's a little invasive, you think, but you always let her do it so you can't very well tell him off.

 _This is nice_ , he is saying while you focus on mixing colors, the brighter the better. _Your stuff has been so angsty lately._

Your smile is fleeting but his never goes away, and when you look at him you can see a reflection of yourself in the emotions of his eyes. No one deserves that feeling of something eating at you from the inside, a love you shouldn't have, and you realize – a most unwelcome epiphany – that if you have her, then he has neither one of you. Doubly heartbreaking, in a way.

The two of you have always called this your little game (and haven't you always known deep down that he puts in so much more effort?), but the nature of it has changed now, into something bigger than yourselves and with much higher stakes. There will be no winners here, you realize, and that somehow makes you feel even worse.

VII.

She's really starting to rub off on you after twelve years; it's two in the morning and you're sitting on the floor, wearing three sweaters (your mother had to choose between adding to your college fund or paying the heating bill) and making a pros and cons list.

 _pro: you could love him_

 _con: you don't_

And it would kill her, because you've known for years that they are not in love with each other, but she still thinks they are. There is no fairytale where the knight in shining armor falls for the princess' best friend.

There is no fairytale where the princess falls in love with her best friend, either, the tiny blonde lady-in-waiting, and that's killing _you_.

What are you supposed to do in this situation, you wonder, other than remove yourself from the equation? But you don't know how to do that without cutting them out of your life, and that will _never_ be an option. You'll give up everything for them but the people themselves.

VIII.

The pieces in your art portfolio feel too personal to send to a panel of uppity, conservative judges who have never met you and will never understand. The papers feel too light as you hold them in your dainty hands, weighed down only by the memories you relive as you see them.

Texas, where he feels most at home, with all that extended family in their ten-gallon hats and boots and stirrups. His best friend making eyes at some faceless cheerleader, since he doesn't have a girl but he certainly has a type.

Your mother, more in the picture now than she ever was before, holding the hand of a man you're still hoping will choose the two of you and stay this time (unlike the original). The boy you like to think of as your own brother, currently losing all his teeth and growing up too fast.

The other boy, who's known almost as long as your best friend, still struggling to live up to his strange name and stranger personality. It would have been easier if one of you had just loved him back, but one thing you now understand completely is that you can't control your feelings.

Most of the pictures are of her, of course, indescribable and rarely finished; nothing you sketch will ever capture the essence of the real thing. You don't know if you'll ever reach the level of skill necessary for drawing vivaciousness and sincerity and the joy of life, but you have never stopped trying.

IX.

You know what other people think of you and some of it you greatly enjoy – people who tremble when you walk by, a reputation that precedes you – and some of it is petty, vicious cruelty that always comes from being (almost entirely) unashamed of who you are.

It hurts more in the privacy of your own room (you don't cry in public, not since you fell off a skateboard at your strangest friend's eighth birthday party), and even then it's completely silent because you've gotten so good at hiding things.

That, and people come in through the window now, without warning, something you often lament about even though you're the one who normalized it. It's nice, though, that she isn't scared to come over anymore, even if she hasn't done so in quite some time.

She'll be even busier now, you remind yourself, now that she'll be traipsing around the city with him on his white horse, no time for the girl who always seems to complicate relationships. You know she's never had a steady boyfriend before – four years of an 'unofficial thing' and they're still pretending that they're right for each other – so you're not quite sure what to expect.

It occurs to you that it might have been ridiculous – conceited, even – to assume that he liked _you_. Maybe just a little, certainly not as much as he obviously liked her, but you decide you shouldn't care what your best friend's boyfriend thinks of you, anyway.

 _Best friend's boyfriend_. You hate the words, even if you can't hate the boy himself. If it was you, then you would have chosen her, too. Everyone would; your classmates all told you so in eighth grade: they like her and they don't care who plays her.

That, you think, is a little demeaning on their part. No one does happy, innocent, genuine goofball quite like she does, and you should know. You fell in love with her own unique brand of crazy, after all.

X.

It's hard to look at them together now, the blindingly perfect couple. You don't think they'll last but you fear it, that reminder thrown in your face for years to come with every little glance out of the corner of their eyes and brushing of their hands. Your sketchbook is full of nightmares: a smiley bride and her cowboy groom, green-eyed babies with her perfect button nose, your ring replaced with his diamond one.

The lies spill easily out of your mouth – _I'm so happy for you, took you two long enough, it's almost nauseating just being around you_ – though the last one is an unfortunate truth, and your hatred for yourself leaves you feeling unsettled.

He keeps trying to make eye contact but you know blue has always been his favorite color so you refuse to let them meet, and here you are. Three people at a table with a hundred secrets each and you hope you built these friendships with foundations strong enough to last.


End file.
